


Words Unsaid

by orangefriday



Category: Smosh
Genre: One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangefriday/pseuds/orangefriday
Summary: Anthony remembers the first time for everything and the words that could've been said.
Relationships: Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla





	1. Chapter 1

  
The first time, as far as Anthony could recall, the first moment of feeling, was the moment Ian had to coax Anthony down from a high reign of rage. It came without words. Anthony had come home, completely silent because disappointment and anger covered all his ability to communicate. He didn’t need to tell Ian what happened with the first girl he had ever offered his heart to. He only had to look his best friend in the eye and all was conveyed.  
  
If words were not lost, he might have said, might have lied, crying, _I cared for her. I thought we had something. I loved her._  
  
But Anthony was glad. He hadn’t said anything he would regret, not allowing useless syllables to spill out of desperation. Instead, he was silent and Ian was too.  
  
He didn’t need to ask. Anthony had only needed to sit and slump his body beside Ian, let the weight drip off of him and let Ian handle it. Ian was good at it, knowing exactly what to do. A smile that held a million promises blew out the fire in Anthony’s chest and filled it with cool waters.  
  
His shoulder pressed against Ian’s was all Anthony needed for the moment and he was thankful for that.

  
***

  
This first time Anthony realized how much Ian meant to him was when they celebrated seven years of Smosh, thirteen years of friendship and the fact that Ian hadn’t died from his recent snowboarding accident.  
  
They had decided to hold a party up on the white peaks of some mountain Anthony would never remember the name of. Snowboarding was Ian’s thing and Anthony went along with it for the sake of pleasing his best friend. Plus, he knew Ian wanted to impress Melanie who he hadn't seen in months.  
  
It would be expected that Anthony would be the one in the clinic, holding onto a sprained arm and a bruised leg, but it was Ian. Ian was the one grunting pain and rocking back and forth with long seething breaths. And Anthony was the one sitting silently beside the hurt boy, running a hand up and down Ian’s hunched shivering back. Melanie, on the other side of Ian was frowning and leaving every so often to check for an available doctor.  
  
He didn’t need Ian to say it to him. He knew, waiting for hours in a lanky white room at the edge of town without complaint what Ian would say. Anthony only pulled Ian in towards him after a particularly painful minute, letting the head of downy brown rest on his shoulder.  
  
He might have called Ian an idiot, or told him, _Don’t try to show off again, you douche. She wasn’t even looking. I don’t want you diving off a cliff for nobody._  
  
But he only nodded his head when Ian looked up at him, blue eyes blinking back frustrated tears and he knew Ian was saying, thank you.

  
***

The first time Anthony knew there would be nobody else in the world that would ever understand him like Ian, was when they had laughed so much, their mouths gaping wide open, that air was out of reach from their bodies.  
  
He can’t even remember what it was that was so funny, only that it was funny enough to cause laughter to last all afternoon. If Anthony had to choose the happiest moment of his life, it would be this; watching Ian crumple to the floor, fistful of Anthony’s shirt and dragging him down too until they were a heap of a gasping mess.  
  
And if words were to form between heaving gulps, they might have choked out, _I can’t breathe! Gah, why is this so funny? Help me, I’m dying!_  
  
But Anthony could only manage to give Ian a look, taking in his friend’s red face and bright eyed look and pressing his face into Ian’s rumbling chest. They laughed like that for what seemed like hours until their faces hurt and their lungs ached. Anthony was thankful that they even made it through the day because every look, every touch, every smile, every incoherent word was followed by out-of-breath laughter.  


***

  
The first time they laid beside each other all night without sleep was the moment Charlie died.

They both knew the time would come, as was the tendency for life to arrive and leave all on its own accord. There were no warning signs or days leading up to it. It came silently, stealthily like a cold wind at night.  
  
Anthony expected it to affect his friend more than it would him. It wasn’t his pet after all, merely another form of entertainment for their audience. But one look at Ian’s quivering lips and light blue eyes so dark in the middle of the night, plunged a pang of loss deeper than expected in him.  
  
It was enough to leave Ian still and motionless for a while and enough for Anthony to lead Ian into his own room where Charlie’s little grey lifeless body was not. If Anthony could remember, it was probably the second time he recognized this feeling, this impossible but so real feeling, as he took Ian’s hand in his without a thought, intertwining their fingers as he nudged a silent Ian into bed.  
  
If words were spoken, Ian might have said, might have cried, _I miss him. What am I going to do now? Anthony, why did this happen?_  
  
Anthony didn’t expect the tears that welled up in his eyes as Ian curled up beside him, moulding himself against Anthony’s body. The beating of his heart went in time with the pulse of Ian’s tight grip as he breathed in the warm scent of his friend.  
  
He knew all Ian needed was this moment of vulnerability and Anthony would let him have it, thankful that the night was long.  


***

  
The first time Anthony felt jealousy almost cave him in, even blind him, was when Ian didn’t come home from a date. He had come up with a dozen scenarios; the two of them laughing together, flirting with one another, embracing the other and the farthest he went was all the way to Ian and Melanie getting married and abandoning Anthony.  
  
In that span of an hour, he had made himself miserable, flipping through television channels faster than his mind could take in. But then again, his mind was elsewhere; somewhere between irrationally driving around town looking for Ian and hurling the remote to the wall in his bit of rage.  
  
But he didn’t do any of that. He only sat there, dazed after pulling himself out of that stupor of extremity. Anthony didn’t know where he went. He didn’t understand what was going on in his mind as he pushed away the jealousy. He didn’t even realize it was jealousy at the time.  
  
Maybe he might have called it, _Worry_ or _Loneliness._ His last relationship had left him hollow, always looking for something, somebody, usually Ian to smother the desperation.  
  
He was a little sad but thankful Ian didn’t come home that night. He didn’t know what he might have done.  


***

  
The first time Anthony tried to date again, after that two year long relationship that had left him bare and empty, all he could think about was Ian.  
  
He thought about what Ian would think. Would he think Anthony was lying? Would he think Anthony was disgusting? Would Ian even believe him?  
  
He didn’t know. He wanted to know. And he wished he didn’t feel.  
  
If he had been brave enough, if he had been truthful enough, he might not have kissed her that night or watched her strip naked until she laid herself and all her secrets before him.  
  
He might have told her, _No. I’m sorry. This isn’t what I want. You’re not who I want._  
  
But he didn’t.  
  
He took her. He let her take him. But his mind and his heart was elsewhere completely.

Anthony was thankful he could fool her, even fool himself.  


***

  
The first time Anthony almost lost control was when he saw Ian, pale and naked in the moonlight. He was standing, his back to Anthony, one palm laid flat and strong on the white of the wall and another moving slow, up and down, up and down.  
  
Anthony almost opened the door to Ian’s room completely; the small crack between the frame and the door barely concealing Ian’s hunched back, moving in time with his quick, sharp breaths.  
  
He knew he should close it, stop looking, but his eyes and his body would not move. The only thing in motion was the stirring of bubbling heat that pooled in the back of his throat and dripped like lava to the centre of his being. This wasn't something meant to be seen, as Ian sighed, head tilting back and hair falling around his shoulders.  
  
Anthony imagined. He thought about walking in, quiet and slow. He thought about taking off his own clothes and how it would feel to press the entire length of his own body against Ian’s flush one. He thought about smoothing his hands down skin glistening with crystal heat and gripping Ian’s hips and thrusting his own right up against Ian’s bare ass.  
  
He wanted to take Ian's cock in his hands, let his fingers wrap around the pulsating flesh and grip hard. He wanted to feel Ian moan, the sound reverberating between the two of them as he pumped harder and harder, moved faster and faster until white hot heat spurt between his fist and ecstasy danced wild and brilliant around them.  
  
He wanted to see those eyes as Ian came, feel the arch of Ian's sweat-soaked back as he writhed in pleasure. Anthony wanted to take those lips in his and taste Ian, breathe him in until his lungs burst with too much. He wanted to lie down and spend the night, naked and helpless in Ian’s arms, just like they had been when Charlie died.  
  
And Anthony might have, if not for his thoughts screaming at him, _No, this is wrong! Stop, stop, stop! Fuck, you’re disgusting._   
  
He shook himself out of it and backed away. He walked all the way outside in the dark, without a coat and let the icy wind punish him. The biting frigid night slashed away his disturbed thoughts and Anthony was thankful for the chill that cut him up and brought him back to reality.  


***

  
The first time Anthony accepted his feelings for Ian, was the first time Ian punched him in the face.  
  
It was the first time Anthony cried himself to sleep, clutching his chest as his heart tried to break his ribs. The pain traveling through his body a dozen times more excruciating than the throbbing hurt on his cheek. It was the first time he woke up alone at home, knowing Ian would not come back. No Kalel, no Charlie and now, no Ian. He was only slightly thankful no one was there to hear him and see him as he spiralled downward into the dark.  
  
The silence was deafening now.  
  
***  
  
The first words Ian said after a week long absence, standing at the front door with his backpack falling off one shoulder, were, "How's the bruise, man?"  
  
Anthony only shrugged, blinking his heavy tired eyes and touching unconsciously his cheek where black and blue was fading into peach again.   
  
"Can I come in?" Ian didn't wait and walked in, his shoulder touching Anthony's.  
  
Anthony closed the door and turned around, watching as Ian tossed his bag onto the floor and stood to face him, hands at his sides fidgety and nervous.  
  
They didn't say anything for a while, only looked at each other as if their eyes could speak days of words to each other.  
  
Finally, Ian spoke, "I fucked up."  
  
If Anthony hadn't spent the last week alone, dying and punishing himself, he might have responded with more. He might have told Ian how he should have listened, how he wished Ian felt the same. Anthony might have told him how awful the days were and how cold the nights were, thinking about the purposeless future. He might have told Ian how he hadn't eaten anything for two days and he didn't have the heart to fill his stomach. Anthony might have told him how much he needed Ian and how much he hoped Ian needed Anthony as well.  
  
But he didn't. Anthony only said, "Me too."  
  
And Ian had nodded, smiling a smile that should hurt Anthony, stab him with how carefree and willing it was to forget, forget any of this happened but it only made Anthony feel better that Ian was okay. They embraced, and for that long agonizing minute, with their hearts beating in time, _thump thump,_ Anthony thought Ian would say, _I'm sorry. I missed you. I need you. I love you._  
  
But he didn't, only muttered against Anthony's neck, "Friends again?”  
  
"Of course." Just friends. _Only_ friends. Anthony hoped it was enough.  
  
He felt Ian smile. "Thank you." 


	2. Forget it the Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Side Story to "Words Unsaid") There’s something in Anthony that Ian knows. He pretends not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story takes place between Anthony catching Ian in his bedroom and before Ian leaves in "Words Unsaid".

There’s something in Anthony that Ian knows. He pretends not to notice, staring at the mistletoe hanging lone on the doorframe between the kitchen and the hallway to the bedrooms. There’s something about the feather green leaves and the pale cream of the berries that Ian would rather look at than see Anthony.  
  
He’s trying his hardest not to be pulled in, sipping amber liquid and wincing a little as it scratches the back of his throat, fizzing down hot and warm. Ian tries not to take note of the way Anthony glances at him from across the room; little flickers of gazes that catch his eye and send him almost falling back. Someone pushes him from behind, wedging their way between Ian and the back of the kitchen counter. He thinks it’s Melanie but he barely spots her leaving the room with a few of her friends and his eyes lock with Anthony’s again. He pretends it’s the alcohol that blurs his vision and puts everything past Anthony’s face out of focus.  
  
It’s been a while since Ian has noticed, since he’s known. It wasn’t too difficult to decipher it, having been through it already. He doesn’t want to recognize it though, pushing it away further and farther every day. Every day turns into every hour and every hour to every second. It goes to a point where Ian has to form a mantra in his mind to stop thinking about it, to stop wishing, to stop wanting and hoping.  
  
He’s not to suppose to think this way.  
  
Ian scratches the back of neck, finding his fingers sweaty and clammy as he strains his neck back to keep on staring at the ribboned Christmas garland. His vision swims a little as he suddenly feels Anthony close again, being so used to knowing what it’s like. His nose and his chin tingle and his chest hurts. He pretends it’s because he can’t hear Charlie’s wheel squeaking down the hall. How he can hear anything over the noise is beyond him, but he grapples onto this idea like a lifeline. The truth is too dangerous.  
  
“Hey,” Anthony says, quiet but loud enough over the thumping of the music. It takes Ian a second to tear his gaze from the ceiling to Anthony and he almost regrets it. The beer is a lot more appetizing now and Ian nods, gulping down half of it into his stomach.  
  
“Enjoying yourself?” Ian asks and he forces a smile past the sizzling on his tongue. He wants to say more, maybe tell Anthony he’s tired instead, a little depressed, because that’s how he feels right now.  
  
“Yeah, it’s cool,” Anthony answers, for some reason, nervous and hesitate. It’s hard to know when Ian’s judgement is separating from him as he teeters a little sideways. A hand comes up almost to touch Ian but it wavers and falls back to his side. Ian watches the hand, one second wanting the grip on his arm, his shoulder, his waist, anywhere and the next completely forgetting about it because Ian isn’t supposed to think like that.  
  
Ian wants to break the tension so he laughs out of nowhere, not knowing what else to do because he’s nervous too. He blames the beer and the people all around him too happy and unashamed of who they are, prancing and writhing to the music. Ian makes the mistake again of looking straight into Anthony’s eyes, seeing what Ian had been trying to avoid and finding his breath escape out of his lungs too fast. He’s winded suddenly and tries to grasp around him for the lost air to come back.  
  
“You’re drunk,” Anthony observes, when Ian’s laughs turn into choked snickers. He cringes, Anthony’s voice travelling down the side of neck and making his skin crawl with fuzziness. Ian thinks Anthony sounds concerned, warm and worried. He likes it for a minute, replaying the words for some odd reason, but Ian makes himself forget it the next.  
  
He shakes his head, sloshing the last bit of his drink into his mouth before Anthony can grab the cup away. “No, I’m not… bitch,” he protests, smiling and even he can hear his own words bending together. His friend frowns and puts the cup on the counter behind Ian, Anthony’s arm grazing lightly just over Ian’s bicep. The cotton of his sleeve slides against his burning skin and Ian almost shivers when Anthony’s breath lingers at the crook of his bare collar. That’s where all the air in his body has gone, right into Anthony.  
  
And Ian is blaming again his absolute lack of control, the alcohol that runs through his blood and the way Anthony notices too, just how close they are, cheek almost touching cheek. The warmth is so inviting and Ian almost, just almost, dares to let gravity take hold of him and press himself against Anthony. But before he can, Anthony is in front of him like an apparition, tense with a gaze that flickers everywhere around Ian, lingering right at the sight of the mistletoe.  
  
But he’s a lot closer. Two steps more than before and half a step away.  
  
Ian’s not quite sure what to do, so engrossed in his previous thoughts and trying to shake them off. He watches Anthony, notes his surprise and realization, the way the gears in his head turn and the way his throat tightens with a gulp.  
  
Ian manages to croak out, awkwardly, quiet, “What d’ya think it tastes like?”  
  
“What?” Anthony almost squeaks and Ian’s lips quirk upwards slightly, a tiny part of him glad to know he isn’t the only one out of the two shaken up. The room’s spinning now and the tips of his fingers feel numb, just fidgeting for feeling again. Anthony is very close.  
  
“Mistletoe,” Ian whispers for some reason. The meaning behind that word hasn’t quite struck him yet but it leaks into his consciousness slowly. Maybe the idea has already been there before, just like how Ian feels about Anthony, but he’s just trying to forget like always.  
  
“Oh,” Anthony whispers too and the sound drips. “You can’t eat that, you douche. It’s plastic.”  
  
“Oh.” Ian stands a little straighter which inevitably brings them a little closer. Anthony doesn’t move back. He wonders if Anthony can hear the trembling in his blood.  
  
Ian is reminded of that moment alone, for some reason, just a few days ago when Anthony had gone out on a date with some girl he had just met. Ian had stood naked, alone, in his dark room, thinking that being completely devoid of anything that could hide him, unclothed, would disgust himself enough to stop. He remembers running his hand slowly down, breath hitching when he sees himself completely erect just envisioning Anthony. And he had told himself it was the last time he would let these feelings in.  
  
Ian’s brought back to this moment now as Anthony shifts his neck a little to the side. They don’t speak. They just stand there and _breathe._  
  
He remembers the time his body betrayed him in that moment of jealousy, loneliness and want, just like it is now as he takes half of that half of a step towards Anthony. He feels the laces of desire wrap around him, sly and velvety until they turn into tight ropes that would only loosen until Ian obeys. The people around them, the ricocheting notes of heavy music and even the mistletoe that hangs above them disappears.  
  
So he listens for once to what he wants because everything is silent and he blames the stillness that inches him closer and closer.  
  
Just when he’s almost there, their faces a breath away, he feels Anthony’s hands grip his shoulders, holding him in place. Anthony’s eyes are searching, confused, the brown in them swirling with emotions that Ian finds so familiar because it’s exactly what’s tumbling inside beneath his own skin.  
  
Ian could shrug off those hands, warm and gentle, he could easily keep moving. But he’s losing his confidence suddenly.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?” Anthony whispers and the sound is barely heard being swallowed by the deafening beat of Ian’s heart.  
  
It takes a moment for Ian to answer because he knows what’s happening: what he _wants_ to do and at the same time, he knows what he _should_ be doing and what he _shouldn’t._ So he decides to take the route of _easy and possible_. “I don’t know.”  
  
It’s always easier not to know.  
  
It’s easier not to think as Anthony nods, his throat tightening again. It’s so much easier not to want Anthony to lean just a little closer, have his hands move somewhere, anywhere, everywhere because Ian likes the fluttering his body does as Anthony touches him.  
  
“You’re drunk,” Anthony says again.  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
And maybe it’s the way Anthony is biting his lip, or the way his cheeks were flushed and his unholy heat is making it too easy not to draw closer. And maybe it’s the way Anthony’s eyes glance up at the mistletoe in silent prayer, hoping it’s traditional magic applied to the both of them. But Ian finds himself pressed right up against Anthony, his hands still at his sides because he still sort of wants to play this off as him falling into Anthony.  
  
In case anything went wrong, as their lips hover over each other, stinging and shuddering with sensations that Ian wants so bad, so much, right now, he could pretend he had just fallen, a little tipsy. He could save the two of them explanations as to why they were so close.  
  
But it’s sort of too late now because Ian’s eyes are closed and they’re kissing all of a sudden. He’s sure Anthony closes the distance. Ian vaguely compares it to all the people he’s ever kissed and even though it’s not a hungry kiss or one that’s done in haste, he likes it more than any other. It’s one of those kisses that don’t seem to really be happening so you have to do it more, move into it a little deeper, lest it leaves you too soon and not enough.  
  
The way Ian feels right now; he can’t understand it. His mind is playing tricks on him because he keeps going from wanting and tasting, tongues tentatively tangling to, he _shouldn’t, this is wrong, what the fuck are you doing?_  
  
The more he moves with Anthony, already half-hard against Anthony’s stomach, the more he knows he _needs_ to get out of there, _stop_ , _Ian, you’re not supposed to._  
  
And he could have silenced those thoughts completely because it’s so much easier to give in if not for a voice that cries his name out from across the room. Its surprise and fear lending itself back into Ian’s mind as he opens his eyes.  
  
Melanie is just standing there at the entrance of the room, expression shocked and _disgusted_ and it takes a second for Ian to understand why.  
  
It could have taken quicker for Ian to realize what he has done, what he’s been doing in that haze of overwhelming out-of-control desire if it wasn’t Anthony who he was kissing. If it were anybody else, anyone other than _Anthony._  
  
The room starts to spin again, the noise catching up and Ian’s head hurts badly when he jerks too fast away and hits it against the frame of the door. What probably hurts more is when he raises his fist, not knowing what it’s about to do until it connects to Anthony’s face and he feels all the joints in his knuckles popping upon impact.  
  
It’s the same feeling that grips his heart as he watches his friend crumple to the floor, crying out and Ian just catches the tears welling up under wide chocolate brown irises. The hope in them fades away and Ian is sorry and regretful now.  
  
Anthony’s accusing eyes, as friends gather between them to stop them, to help Anthony and as Ian is being dragged away by Melanie; the tearful eyes ask him, _Why? Why did you do that? What is this?_  
  
_Don’t you feel the same way?_  
  
Ian’s lost control. He feels dirty. He feels disgusting. He feels horrible because he never wants to stop feeling _this way._ And he remembers nights where he has lain in bed, wishing, longing, and hoping for Anthony to be beside him.  
  
Not just beside him, but beside him as more than Anthony is supposed to be.  
  
But he isn’t and could never be. Ian isn’t going to let that happen again as the throbbing pain in his hand and the suffocating loss in his chest reminds him. As he stumbles after Melanie, _who he’s supposed to be_ , who steers him out of the house, furious and confused. He knows. They have to stay the way they are. And he’s sorry, knowing Anthony wants more too. He’s sorry that he’s too scared to do the thing where he lets himself love his best friend.  
  
Melanie asks him a million questions, _What was that? What the hell were you doing? What was Anthony doing? What were_ you _thinking? Why did you punch him? Are you all right, babe? You’re drunk._  
  
He could only mutter under his breath, something only he could really hear, the reason he’s going to blame for how he feels, for that kiss, “Mistletoe.”  
  



End file.
